Hard Time
by Adir Al-Assad
Summary: JBL and the Undertaker find themselves incarcerated in a small-town Louisiana drunk tank. What happens in jail stays in jail, especially if Bradshaw has any say in it. Written for Ruffian for a holiday challenge. :


**Hard Time**

The police station in Bayou City, Louisiana was set in the center of town, across from the city courthouse and a towering old Pentecostal church. Small and square, the diminutive brick building held barely enough space for an office and-a-half; enough for the town sheriff and his deputy to conduct their business. The city lockup, as it were, was located under the police station. Three holding cells took up the area beneath the building and were usually reserved for regulars: a couple town drunks and disorderly vagrants, mostly. It was safe to say that the two men currently occupying the cell closest to the wall were neither.

John Bradshaw Layfield paced, back, forth and back again, in front of the cell door. He stopped long enough to stare despondently out through the rusty old bars. From where he was, he could see the exit staircase that led up and out. A strange and rather unfortunate set of circumstances had landed him here, on the wrong damn side of the bars.

He sighed, set to pacing again. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. From behind him, the gruff voice of his companion (partner in crime, really) rumbled, "Would you light somewhere? You're gonna wear a rut in the goddamn floor." There was no irritation, no veiled threat in those words, but Bradshaw knew it would do him well to comply. He stopped and turned abruptly on his heel to face the big man who lounged (comfortably, Bradshaw thought) on the too-small cot against the cold stone wall.

"This is your fault, you know," he said flatly. "I can't believe I let you get me into this mess." The Undertaker barked a laugh in response, dragging a hand through his dark auburn hair.

"You want to get technical," he said, "this is actually on you. I wasn't the one who told you pissin' in a graveyard in front of a cop shop was a good idea. No, you did that one all on your own."

"I shoulda known drinking with you would be a bad idea." Bradshaw considered this, added, "Drinking with you is _always_ a bad idea." Taker chuckled. The humor of the situation was lost on Bradshaw completely. A moment passed before he sighed again, heavily, and said, "This is ri_goddamn_diculous. How long do you think we'll have to stay in this backwoods hellhole?"

"Don't know," Taker replied almost casually. "Can't say I've found myself incarcerated in a basement in Bumfuck East, Louisiana, before. Might be till morning, might be till next week for all we know."

"I hope to God you're joking," he said crossly. He fired a glance backward over his shoulder at Taker, who was reclining with his hands behind his head, eyes closed. Bradshaw frowned. "How in the _hell_ can you be so nonchalant about this?"

"You know, you wouldn't do well in prison."

"Where the hell's that deputy at? Soon as I see his pipsqueak ass, he and I are going to have some words."

"Yeah. Good luck with that." Bradshaw rolled his eyes.

"You're no damn help at all, you know that?" Resigning himself at last, Bradshaw took a seat in the rickety old chair bolted to the floor in the far corner of the cell.

A few minutes later there was a flood of light from the stairwell and the young deputy came down, sauntering onto the block, keys jangling on one hip. He came to stand in front of the cell, one hand poised on his gun holster.

"You boys enjoying your stay?" He smirked. "Ain't every day we get visitors from out of town down here in our keep." There was a cocky glint in his eye that Bradshaw had already determined he didn't like. One that told him that this arrogant little bastard took a great deal of satisfaction in this, the situation at hand. His attitude was too big for this place, like he thought this hole in the wall was one of the nice, maximum-security state facilities upstate and he was the head screw running the show.

"Look," Bradshaw started cautiously. "Officer..." he glanced at the young man's name plate "Percival Broussard. Cajun, is it?"

"Hardly." He ran a hand over his dark, glossed-back hair and studied Bradshaw with an air of quiet contempt. "Listen, if there's something you need, you might as well get to it."

"I can't help but feel there's some misunderstanding at work here..."

"What is there to misunderstand?" the young deputy interrupted briskly. "You were caught, intoxicated, pissin' behind a mausoleum in front of God and everybody. Your cohort here was clearly in the booze as well."

"Guilty," Taker spoke up cheerfully from the cot. Bradshaw rolled his eyes.

"It don't get more cut and dry than that, I don't think."

By this time, Bradshaw's already-waning patience (he hadn't much to begin with) simply evaporated. Whether it was the remnants of the cheap vodka from Babineaux's Tavern in his system was irrelevant. He wasn't drunk, if that at all counted for anything.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?" He rose from his seat as he said this, and Bradshaw was fairly certain he heard Taker mutter a curse behind him. He didn't care because, yes, he really _was_ about to play this card. "Maybe you're not aware, son, but my name is John Bradshaw Layfield. I am a very, _very_ wealthy man. Wealthy enough to buy and sell every piece-of-crap establishment in this one-mule town." The young deputy did not look impressed. "Look, Officer Broussard. You seem like you've got a fairly good head on your shoulders. You ain't stupid. For the right price, surely you and I can come to some sort of terms, if you catch my drift."

"Mr. Layfield." Broussard raised one eyebrow. "As it stands, you are charged with disorderly conduct, defacing of public property, loitering, and being intoxicated while in public. All fairly minor indiscretions. However, bribing an officer of the law, now, _that's_ an offense that'll get you sent up-river to the State Pen. In which case, God have mercy on your soul." That cocky little smirk never left his lips as he spoke. "Mr. Layfield, I honestly and truly do not give a good goddamn who you are. Far as I'm concerned, you're just another drunk in my lockup." He smiled unpleasantly. "Evening, gents. Sleep tight. Don't let the rats bite." He turned and headed back up the block toward the stairs leading back up to the office.

"Dammit, this is barbaric! I have rights, you know!" Bradshaw bellowed indignantly. "I want a goddamn lawyer! You just wait till I talk to the sheriff!" The only response he received was the door slamming upstairs, and the lights flickering out unceremoniously. The little bastard had put them in the dark, in this dank cellar that passed for a prison. Surely, there had to be some sort of law against this type of thing.

"Well, that went well," declared Taker jovially from out of the thick darkness.

"Yeah. Sure appreciate your help there, my good friend." Bradshaw replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Quit being such a bitch."

A long silence, then Bradshaw questioned, "You think he was serious about the rats?"

"Yep," answered Taker without pause. "Close as we are to the swamp, probably big ones at that. About the size of a large beagle, would be my guess."

Bradshaw thought about it a moment. A moment, really, was all it took.

"Shove over," he said. "Ain't no way in hell I'm sleeping with my feet on the floor when there's rats the size of a damn coonhound scooting around here."

"Just one question, Bradshaw." It was dark as hell, and Bradshaw couldn't see shit save for the moonlight filtering in through a tiny porthole window on the far side of the opposite wall. That didn't matter. He could hear the smirk in Taker's voice as he inquired, "If we're going to be sharing the bed, do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?"

"I hate you so hard right now," deadpanned Bradshaw.

"Whatever helps you respect yourself in the morning."

Bradshaw rolled his eyes. As he worked his way, begrudgingly, onto the small cot beside his friend (feeling the damn frame give way, hoping it wasn't going to snap beneath their weight) he vowed never to speak of this incident to anyone. If Taker knew what was good for his reputation, he wouldn't either. When they finally made it back to Texas, they could blame car trouble, flight delays, a plane overrun by snakes. It didn't matter. He'd be glad to have this one behind him, that was for sure.

After all, as the old saying went, what happened in jail stayed in jail.

**FIN**


End file.
